


This Joy Within Me Dallied With Distress

by blasted_heath



Series: Wings of a Gull [4]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Art, Books, Dancing, Fear of Death, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, For Science!, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Pining, Victorians doing Victorian things, is this a kissing fic?, james and his nerdy hobbies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 13:42:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17426978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blasted_heath/pseuds/blasted_heath
Summary: James and Francis meet on boardTerrorfor the final time before the ship is abandoned.This is the (tentative) final installment of Wings of a Gull, an it refers to scenes from most of the previous chapters. So do check those out if you have not already :)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story relies on the theory that _Terror_ was abandoned before _Erebus_ , due to a precarious position on a pressure ridge. 
> 
> My title this time comes from my favorite Coleridge poem, "Dejection: An Ode." This is the sixth part of the poem:
> 
> There was a time when, though my path was rough,  
> This joy within me dallied with distress,  
> And all misfortunes were but as the stuff  
> Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness:  
> For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,  
> And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine.  
> But now afflictions bow me down to earth:  
> Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth;  
> But oh! each visitation  
> Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,  
> My shaping spirit of Imagination.  
> For not to think of what I needs must feel,  
> But to be still and patient, all I can;  
> And haply by abstruse research to steal  
> From my own nature all the natural man—  
> This was my sole resource, my only plan:  
> Till that which suits a part infects the whole,  
> And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rather depressing inner thoughts of James Fitzjames. He will be given reason to be somewhat happier, soon, though, I promise!

James Fitzjames was a dying man. No matter how much Francis had told him otherwise, no matter how much he tried to convince _himself_ otherwise, James could feel it in the deepest recesses of his heart. Come spring, the abandonment would be inevitable, and they might yet be saved—or they might not. He may be prevented from reaching the actual point of death, if he were lucky. But for now, the fact remained, he was dying. 

He cursed his bleeding scalp; he cursed it every morning when he woke and observed how much blood had stained his bedding overnight. (He agonized over such observations: was it getting worse? Still the same as before?) He cursed it every time he saw his reflection in the mirror in his quarters. And most of all he cursed it when he had to appear before the men, hat or welsh wig pulled low over his forehead, hoping that this at least would disguise his illness for one day longer. 

He had not intended for Francis to discover it; although how he had expected to keep it a secret from _him_ he had never had time to consider. Circumstances had conspired against him, and his deception was found out almost immediately. Francis, the dear man, had thankfully been sympathetic; he hadn’t brushed it aside, but neither had he allowed James to wallow in hopelessness. He had sat with him, held him, allowed James to weep from fear for perhaps the first time in his life, and he had promised—he had _promised_ —that he would keep James alive. James was not sure that was a promise the man could keep, but he was as certain as anything in the world that Francis believed it to be so. Nothing else would do, of course, for a captain in so desperate circumstances. Francis ( _unassailable, resolute, stubborn, and absolutely perfect_ man that he was) would dedicate all that he had, all the spirit within him, to save his men, James was sure. As many of his men as possible, that was, although Francis would never admit it. And James doubted whether he would count among the ranks of possibility. 

Francis had kissed him that night. On the forehead, along his hairline, where he had first discovered he was bleeding. Kissed him, with an arm around him, as they both sat by the warmth of the stove in _Erebus_ ’s great cabin. 

It was perfectly reasonable for a person to kiss their friend in such a way, of course, James considered. Le Vesconte had kissed his hand while he recovered from the bullet-wound in China. Hardy had kissed Nelson, as everyone knew, although of course his fate had been immediately more dire. Any number of men had such friends. Especially brothers-in-arms, especially in a such a situation as theirs. He and Francis had clasped each other’s hands, or embraced each other—who knew how many times? 

But that was not to to the point. Francis had kissed him, and James’s mind burned with the memory, his skin aflame at the feeling of fingertips brushing his hair aside, and a quiet voice assuring him that there was still time. 

_God damn it all_ , thought James, that feeling was going to follow him to his grave, however soon he might find himself there. 

And god damn it, if he didn’t feel like a complete farce of himself. Weaker, thinner, bleeding, fearing death, and possessed of increasingly unmanageable hair, he barely recognized the reflection that greeted him in the glass each morning. Or rather, he did recognize himself, but he wished he did not. Handsomest man in the navy, some had called him, and he had been vain enough to notice. At this point he barely cared if he were handsome anymore ( _what was the point of youth and beauty in the bloody Arctic?_ ) as long as he could look human and healthy, as long as he could feel like himself again. Hard chance that that was going to happen, he thought, but he was exasperated enough to try. He may be turning into a melancholy bastard in private, he mused, but at least he did not lose his stubbornness. 

“Bridgens!” He called out. 

When the steward appeared, James was seated at his desk, a frown deepening the lines on his face, still examining his hair in a mirror. He wasn’t sure if the illness (he would never think of it to himself as _scurvy_ ) had done any irreparable damage to it yet, but it had gone straight from the lack of access to heat for curling tongs. “Is there anything that can be done about this?” He asked, pushing an unruly lock out of his face. “And please don’t judge me, Bridgens. I only wish to feel like myself—“

“I do not judge, sir,” he said. And then, bolder, only knowing he was allowed the question on account of how long he and James had been acquainted, “It’s the _Terror_ , then?” 

James nodded as imperceptibly as possible. “Yes. _Terror_ ,” he confirmed, barely a whisper. 

“I’ll see what I can work out, sir. Later, when we are allowed to light the fires. You will not be otherwise occupied?”

“No, John.” He knew he sounded as exhausted as he felt.

Bridgens gave him a concerned look. “He’ll be glad to have you. You needn’t worry yourself on that account.”

 

\---

James was sitting in his bunk, an open book face down across his lap. It was warmer to be there than sitting in the great cabin now, without the fire lit. As it was, he had no need for decorum anyway. He had told Francis several days ago how dull it had become on _Erebus_ , and he felt the same now. The ship was more crowded than it ever had been, and yet, perhaps _because_ of the cramped conditions, and because of the reason behind them, no one ever seemed much in the mood for company. He had no meetings left to attend to that afternoon, and with Lieutenants Irving and Little supervising the placement of men and belongings, there was no reason for him to add his person to the crowded spaces between decks. 

Not that he truly felt like leaving his quarters, or seeing anyone, quite yet today. He hoped that everyone would be too occupied to notice that their usually-energetic captain had taken to hiding himself away unless he had to be seen, or to wonder why. As of the next day, Francis would be on board as well, and then he was certain that no one would even notice that the second-in-command was not as present as he once had been. 

Selfishly, he hoped that the expedition leader’s constant presence on board would raise his spirits. He certainly felt improved when he was on _Terror_ , and had taken to walking over in the evenings for no reason other than seeking his friend’s company. Francis had ever been of the brooding sort, and originally that alone had given James reason to maintain the cheerful disposition that he had always been known for, by way of contrast or assistance. But now, now he simply felt more alive aboard _Terror_ than he had on _Erebus_ for quite some time. With conversation to distract him, he could forget that he was besieged on all sides by illness and ice and darkness; he could almost forget why it was that they were sitting in a freezing, precariously tilted ship’s cabin to begin with. As for Francis—he was certainly more collected now, being sober, but the change had not rendered him any more habitually happy. He was too preoccupied with the abandonment of _Terror_ to be in good spirits, perhaps; and to own the truth, it may have been too much to expect that anyone could call their spirits _good_ , here, now. At least, not while they were alone…

Good Christ, but he could not sort out his own thoughts. All he knew was that his mind was more at ease when he had Francis to talk to, and he could only hope that the other man felt the same. It would be pleasant to know if he might be of assistance to a friend here, at what may well be the end, as Francis had been for him. Lord knew that the man needed it. Tomorrow he would be leaving _Terror_ for the last time, to join the rest of the crew on _Erebus_ until the day they walked out. And while he had never been very vocal about personal matters, James knew it affected him. It was only to be expected, with him having been the only man to command the ship over the last ten years. He and _Terror_ were joined in a way that only a man of Francis’s experience could understand, yet now there was no choice but to abandon her. The arrangement left him variously withdrawn or outrightly distraught, if James could judge of the times he had walked over in the evenings; and although he knew there was nothing he could truly say about it that would be of any help, he had managed occasionally to get Francis to laugh at their conversations, and that was all the success he had any right to wish for. 

He did wish for other things, of course. He constantly urged himself to forget about it, but more often than he would admit, and especially when he found himself alone, what he truly wanted was to return to _Terror_ , sit before the warmth of a stove (out of the question now), and hear Francis tell him sternly but probably erroneously that all would be well. He made no complaints about dedicating himself to helping his friend through whatever troubled him, and he could be truly, entirely content for that to be the basis of their meetings, as long as it allowed them time together. But no level of concern for another could completely drown out his own fear, now that he had admitted it. He wanted Francis to kiss him again, and again still, if he happened to be so inclined. Mostly he wanted companionship; he wanted never again to be alone. 

For the moment, though, he had hoped that reading would keep him suitably distracted. He had personally made an inventory of every book on board the ship, while they were in Greenland in ‘45, so he had thought he knew where to find material for any occasion. Of course he had not, however, ever thought about how to distract himself from the concept of his own death. He had never put serious thought into the matter of mortality at all—had managed to drown it out with the constant pursuit of action and adventure—so he had no conception of how others made peace with it.

It was a wonder he’d managed to avoid it so long, he thought bitterly; he had read all the Romantic poets, of course. But he had been intrigued by the exotic, the ancient, and the ferocity of nature—somehow it had never quite bothered him that death and decay lay behind it all. So much, now, for the charm of the “traveler from an antique land,” and the tales of ancient kings who had gone before the modern world:

_Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!_

_Nothing beside remains. Round the decay_

_Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare_

_The lone and level sands stretch far away._

What a similar tale their two vessels might make, he thought, eternally frozen and decaying, two great monuments in the icy expanse to their act of hubris.

 _Hubris_. If only he had voiced his support when Francis first used that word, before the winter of ‘46, before Sir John made the decision that brought them...here. He was unconvinced that his words would have had any sway over Sir John’s course of action, but at least Francis would have known that he respected him as the most rational and experienced polar veteran among them. Instead he had mocked Francis’s tone as melodramatic. He was not sure what he had ever done in life to deserve that man’s friendship now, after everything. But he was sure that he would be lost without it, now, and that he admired him utterly. 

Clearly, reading was _not_ a suitable distraction, he realized with an exasperated sigh. How had his mind even wandered to “Ozymandias” and hubris? Certainly he must have known better than to pick up anything like blasted Percy Shelley, of all things, especially after one look at the Keats book he’d taken off Terror a few days ago. He realized he had quite forgotten what book it was he had on his lap, and turned it over hoping to discover that he had in fact made a better decision. Thomas Gray. Of course. Standard reading back home; he had expected there could be no harm in something so familiar. He glanced at the page he had stopped on:

_Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth_

_A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown._

_Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,_

_And Melancholy mark'd him for her own._

_Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,_

_Heav'n did a recompense as largely send:_

_He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,_

_He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend._

Good God. The man made obscure birth and early, anonymous death sound like something to aspire to. Perhaps it might have been, in some country churchyard—but clearly Gray had no conception of dying alone in the ice. He tossed the book aside. If only misery did make one’s soul deserving of friendship in their last days. He had a surfeit of that, now. Thank heaven for Francis Crozier, whether he deserved him or not. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes—perhaps it was better to sleep and wait for the evening, rather than imploring the poets for advice.

 

\---

“You came after all.” Francis spoke from the corner of Terror’s great cabin, which seemed to be the only place James found him these days. 

“Of course I did,” James replied, displaying his characteristic smile and striding across the room unwinding the comforter from his neck. Francis raised an eyebrow at the brightly-colored object—he always seemed amused at James’s non-regulation clothing, and a red scarf that undoubtedly clashed with the rest of his attempts to look put-together certainly was _not_ regulation—but said nothing. 

“I would not for any reason allow Francis Brooding Recluse Crozier to spend tonight of all nights turning _Terror_ into a hermitage,” he continued. 

Francis sighed. “You’re rather proud of that one aren’t you?” He asked dryly. 

“Proud of what?”

Francis rolled his eyes. “You know what. Why do you always insist on doing that to my name?”

James cocked his head innocently. “And what’s that, now?”

“Inventing ridiculous second names!”

“Oh. Well.” He took a moment to consider. “I know how particular you are that people recognize _all_ your names. Since I have discovered there are so many, it will necessarily take quite a while for me to use all of them.” 

“You are absurd, James.” Francis shook his head, but was laughing. 

“Well then, my dear Francis, if absurdity is what it takes to coax a genuine smile out of you, I am pleased to be of service.” James undid the buttons of his coat, and sat down at the opposite side of the table. Leaning back, he crossed his legs, propped his elbows on the arms of the chair and stared pointedly at his friend. He was aware that he was demonstrating more enthusiasm than was typical even for him, but if there was ever a time for such theatrics, it was tonight. 

“I see you brought your journal again.” Francis eyed the book where it lay on the table. “Here to immortalize anything else of _Terror_? I hope I’m not about to be asked to sit here quietly and be observed for the rest of the evening again.” 

“Not at all. In fact I had hoped you might tell me some of your own stories tonight—you assured me you had them. But I thought you might also like to see how your portrait looks, completed.”

“I’m sure it’s an excellent likeness, from what I’ve seen of your work. But perhaps that’s what I should be worried about...I’m not sure it’s appropriate to remind a man of his age when he is preparing to leave a ship that knew him as a much younger man…but then again I’m not sure there is much protocol for our situation at all.” Francis paused, seeming to realize that he was rambling. He settled for brevity instead: “Yes, if it makes you happy, I’ll see it.” 

James smiled in satisfaction. “I think you’ll be pleased.” He opened the book to the appropriate page and slid it the short distance across the table, leaning forward as he did. He was still grinning as he turned the book around. 

Francis looked stunned. “James, you... did you… I was expecting you to only draw my face. _Did you model this on the portrait of James Cook?_ ” 

James laughed. “Well I had to model it on _something_. I saw it in one of my books and could not think of a better inspiration.” He had, in fact, drawn Francis sitting to the right of a table, with charts, books, and a magnetic dip circle laid out across it. The window of a ship’s cabin formed much of the background, through which he had suggested the buildings of an observatory. “I meant for it to represent _Terror_ in Van Diemen’s Land, as you were preparing for the Antarctic voyage; I could certainly not leave out your work on terrestrial magnetism. I apologize that I don’t rightly know what Rossbank Observatory looks like, but I hope I captured the general idea.” 

“God, James, I don’t think I’ll ever look that at ease in a dress uniform, and I certainly haven’t looked like _that_ since I was actually in Van Diemen’s Land. But I appreciate the sentiment. Truly I do. If I weren’t looking at myself, I…” 

“You would _what_ , Francis? You would think the subject must be a magnificent officer and man of science? This _is_ what you look like. I did not make you look younger...less tired, maybe, but we’re all in the same situation there. It’s high time you saw yourself as others see you.” 

“Your flattery knows no bounds, but I happen to know you have never thought me a particularly remarkable officer.” 

“I do, in fact. Always have.” James shrugged. “I may have disagreed with you...often, I suppose...on matters of personality, but I was never such a fool as to doubt the navigational judgment of someone with as many years in the ice as you. Just a fool not to have acknowledged it out loud.” He paused, thinking of many other things he would have liked to say: how he had always believed Francis about the dangers of the pack; how he had wished for Sir John to believe him as well; how he would have been honoured to serve as Francis’s second from the beginning, had the Admiralty seen fit to give the expedition to _him_. But he did not want to be thought of as speaking ill of the dead, nor did he want to force either of them to dwell on alternate pasts. Not after the place his thoughts on the matter had brought him earlier. In any case, Francis was now looking at him with something like disbelief, at what little he had already said. So he cleared his throat awkwardly, forced a smile and went on, “but I do not mean to spoil the mood of the evening. If you do not wish to hear me talk about you, perhaps I could persuade you to talk about yourself, and _Terror_. Tonight is the proper time for such things, of all nights. Come,” he said, closing the book and leaning back again with an expectant look. “I have never heard as much as I would like to about the Antarctic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about the Le Vesconte in China bit for any Fitzconte fans here. I don't know if that's true, so don't claim historical accuracy on that! 
> 
> Actual historical notes: 
> 
> Did James Fitzjames enjoy poetry? I'm not quite sure, but he was very well-educated and aspired to be the model of a Victorian gentlemen, so I suspect he was well-versed in literature. The first poem I use in this chapter is of course "Ozymandias," by Percy Shelley. The second is "Elegy in a Country Churchyard" by Thomas Gray, an 18th-century piece that was wildly (I repeat, WILDLY) popular in the 19th century. It was quoted all over the place, and was praised as one of the most quintessentially British pieces to capture the humble ideal of the countryside. 
> 
> Francis Crozier was celebrated in scientific circles for his contributions to magnetic research. He was, in fact, a fellow of the Royal Society. This is potentially why he, historically, was irritated to learn that Fitzjames had been assigned to lead magnetic research on the Franklin expedition. While in Van Diemen's land, Ross, Crozier, and Franklin (who was governor of the colony at the time) were involved in the building of a magnetic observatory in Hobart. It was called Rossbank, which is what James refers to in my story. 
> 
> [This](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Cook#/media/File:Captainjamescookportrait.jpg) is the portrait I'm imagining of James Cook. This might have been printed in one of the naval biographies contained in the ships' libraries of _Erebus_ or _Terror_. And [here](http://www.spiritofmawson.com/objects/rossbank-observatory-hobarton/) is an 1842 painting of Rossbank observatory, complete with figures depicting Ross, Crozier, and Franklin! So if someone wants to recreate James's drawing, there are your sources!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rather fluffy conclusion to my depressing narrative. Containing a scene that I know some of you have been waiting for since the first part!

“You would have liked Joseph Hooker,” Francis was saying. “He was very much like Goodsir, always busy with some specimen or another. Almost forced Ross out of his own cabin with how much space he occupied at the table with his work.” Francis laughed. “But I suspect you would have been just as obliging. Probably would have been out there catching birds with him.” 

“Catching birds?” James asked, indicating that he should continue. He had been careful not to interrupt Francis’s narrative for most of the evening, only commenting or asking for details so as to encourage the man to keep talking. He had asked about the Antarctic expedition, and Francis had certainly obliged. James should not have been surprised at how much there was to say about four years in the south, but he was surprised to hear an extended story from _Francis_ of all people, he who hardly ever put together three sentences about himself. It was a pleasant surprise, though; he rather liked hearing him speak. So he pressed on, “I’m sure I would have. If the man was anything as persuasive as Mr. Goodsir I’m not sure I’d have had a choice. Live ones?”

“Well, mainly not, unfortunately. Although…” he laughed again, “there was one time he brought a live penguin aboard.” 

James raised an eyebrow. “I have the distinct impression that this story ends with you tripping over a rogue bird.” 

Francis squinted. “I’m sure that is the outcome that would most please you, but no. I flatter myself I am not so absent-minded as to be outwitted by a _bird_ , thank you.” He smiled and went on, “no, we were in the Falkland Islands, waiting out one winter before returning to the ice, and we were all quite...frustrated, you might imagine. It’s a dismal place, there. Hooker had managed to capture one of the types of crested penguins that lived on the island, and the thing had the most magnificent head of black hair you’ve ever seen on a bird. Well, feathers of course, but you’d know what I meant if you saw it. The most severe expression, too.”

James was staring. “Oh, no…”

“I see you can imagine who we thought it looked like,” stifling his own amusement at the memory. “So we thought we’d give it free reign of the _Erebus_ cabin by way of a joke...to break the monotony, of course, but the damned creature took up residence in one of the cabinets and could not be persuaded to leave. God, Ross was furious. I think he would have grabbed the bird himself and personally deposited it in my own quarters in retaliation if the thing wasn’t so… prone to biting anyone who tried to get near it.” 

“Francis, I do believe you are inventing this story as you tell it.” James propped his head in his hand with a doubtful expression. 

“You think I would not employ such a trick on my friends?”

“I fear for myself if you would...but no, I don’t believe you’ve ever been that sort of man in your life.”

“You did not know us, then…” he trailed off. “Hm,” he laughed under his breath and glanced across the room. 

“I am reminded, though,” he said after a moment. “I made a promise to you in past weeks that I believe I had better keep.” 

James was genuinely confused. He could think only of one thing that Francis had promised. And although he knew it was morbid to mention, he took refuge in teasing, “To keep me alive? You have a plan to get me out of the Arctic this very night?” 

He nearly regretted his joke as soon as it left his lips. He saw Francis’s expression, which had heretofore been fairly content, fall for the briefest of moments. But he recovered quickly, shook his head as if to acknowledge that James simply had a wicked sense of humour, and went on, “Not specifically, but I hope it should suffice for now.” Francis rose abruptly and extended his left hand. “Dancing, James. I promised I would ask you to dance with me, and as I have considered how infrequently we may find ourselves alone in a suitable place either aboard _Erebus_ or in London, I must ask you now.” His eyes moved pointedly toward the open space at the center of the cabin. This was probably the only benefit to the ship being thrust up on an angle, and the furniture rearranged. 

James could see that Francis’s hand was shaking, slightly, and his expression searching. He was sure Francis would say the hand was a symptom of too much time in the ice, and his expression his usual dour self, but James was not certain. He _wanted_ to imagine...but at the same time a mischievous thought struck him. He took Francis’s hand, but did not yet rise. “And ought I to adopt a Scottish accent for the occasion?” he asked, grinning through his best impersonation of James Ross. 

Francis pulled him sharply to his feet. “You had bloody well better _not_ ,” he growled. 

James made a startled noise at being jolted into a standing position and stumbling forward. He felt he was on the verge of a fit of laughter that could rival his earlier mirth at hearing the dancing story for the first time, but he gritted his teeth, stared into Francis’s eyes, and forced himself to continue in the same accent, “You’re certain about that, Frank?” 

“You ridiculous…” Francis swatted at James’s chest, the backs of his fingers brushing against the buttons of his waistcoat. “Stop that! And how do you know he calls me that? Even he knows I dislike it.” 

James allowed himself a wide smile, but provided no explanation. “Even from me, the _second_ James of HMS _Erebus_?” He asked.

“Even from you, James,” Francis confirmed, and got his right hand abruptly around James’s waist. He glanced at his shoulder, indicating that James should place his hand there, and with an uncharacteristically mischievous nod, propelled them both back into the open space of the room. 

They had to move slowly, to be more steady on the angled floor, but Francis had not lied about being a magnificent dancer. James had expected him to be stiff or methodical, like the grumbling naval captain he always affected to be. But he held James firmly and surely, and directed his partner about the room with surprising grace. James came to consider that perhaps he should have expected this all along—was it not characteristic of sailors to be sure on their feet? And Francis was above all a sailor, not some pretentious gentleman with anything to prove. 

“Am I as you expected?” Francis asked, as if sensing James’s thoughts. 

“Not at all,” admitted James, rather more honestly than he had intended. He had been so committed to teasing Francis all night, it would be amiss to stop now. Frustratingly, however, he could only muster, “The lack of music is distressing, though.” 

“Ah. But of course the hand organ cannot play itself. Perhaps we should have trained Neptune—I am sure that dog could be persuaded to do anything you asked.” He raised his eyebrow in inquiry. 

James snorted at the image of the huge Newfoundland with the arm of the organ in his mouth, turning it to produce the music. How exactly was _Francis_ the one making jokes now? And honest humour, not self-deprecating sarcasm, at that. He seemed a different person entirely, smiling and looking at his friend with unusually piercing eyes; and yet here was James, the master of good humour, stupidly tongue-tied and feeling obliged to look away. 

“Oh, I forgot that you didn’t want me and my eyebrows staring at you through an entire waltz,” he continued. But Francis’s other eyebrow shot up to join the first,and now he was positively beaming. 

James looked back up and shook his hair back from his eyes. “Good Christ, Francis. You... _Thou art translated!_ If I had known that dancing makes you honestly happy—you know you might have asked me much sooner.” 

“Translated?” Francis asked, feigning incredulity. “Are you suggesting I have the head of an ass? But I do sense you’ve always thought that.” 

James laughed under his breath again. _There it is_ , he thought. _Not entirely changed, then._

“In any case, I doubt you would have accepted. We’ve already discussed the unfortunate state I would have been in by this point in the evening.” Francis spun them both in a tight circle on the spot. “Thank you for that, by the way.”

“For what?”

“For stopping me from...for helping me. It would never have done for me to spend my last night on _Terror_ , let alone the rest of my time on _Erebus_ , in such a condition.” James thought he felt Francis’s hand move against his hip, but it was difficult to be sure though all his Arctic layers. His thumb twitched, reflexively, against Francis’s shoulder. _Damn it._

“So is this the more fitting last evening that you expected?” 

Francis laughed then, rather more loudly than either had anticipated. “Dancing with my second in the middle of the bloody pack ice? Never once in my life! Can’t say I’m not pleased at the surprise though.” Francis’s hand _definitely_ tightened on his hip now. 

James felt himself turning red and had to look away again. It was a blessing, he thought, that his curled hair concealed the flush he felt rising on his ears.

“And you?” Francis continued, smiling slightly and tilting his head in attempt to catch James’s wandering gaze. 

“Hm?” 

James felt Francis’s thumb brush along the edge of their clasped hands. “You did say you could have been persuaded to dance with me earlier, but I believe you also called me Francis Damn-the-World Crozier.”

“...World-be-Damned...” James muttered, looking awkwardly over Francis’s shoulder. 

“Indeed. So…?” 

James wanted to ask him what he meant, but he discovered he had forgotten how to speak. All he could do was muster an inquisitive smile and hope he could will his legs to keep moving in the proper time. 

“So.” Francis was grinning mercilessly now. “Do I really strike you as someone who would damn the _entire_ world, after all?” 

_This was intolerable_. James froze with a suddenness that made Francis fairly crash into him, and stammered out an exasperated, “Francis!” at the same time the other man started, in a low voice, “James…” 

James was the taller man. Not by much, but how the hell did it feel like Francis was staring _down_ at him? _Devil take this listing floor._ He disentangled himself and drew himself up as straight as possible. “Francis,” he began again, fighting to steady his voice. “Francis _Rawdon Moira_ Crozier, you are a goddamned marvel and I take back everything I’ve ever said to the contrary.” 

“Is that so?” Francis’s voice was low and maddeningly calm. He still had his hand against James’s waist, but now it was underneath his open coat, fingers wrapping around to his back. How on earth had he gotten it there? “Well, then. James Fitzjames, I must admit that I have been damnably unjust to you for far too long as well.” 

_Oh, Christ. Oh good Christ._ Francis was staring at him. They were close, _so damned near to each other_ , their foreheads almost touching. It occurred to James that in all his previous thoughts about dancing, and all his thoughts of Francis kissing him, he really should have imagined this moment so he might have an idea of how to proceed. As it was, he had never imagined something so drawn-out as this, and he felt like an awkward fool. And _damn it_ , Francis was probably starting to think him a fool too, if his expression was as panicked as he felt it was. Or... _Oh hell_ , he thought, yet again. Even through his waistcoat and jumper, he could feel the warmth of the hand at his back, and the soft brush of a thumb against his side. He felt an inhuman noise rising in his throat, and, finding that the time for composure was long past, threw his arms around Francis’s shoulders, kissed him wherever his lips happened to land (which, in the event, was the corner of his right eye), and settled his forehead against the edge of Francis’s hair. Not the best impression he might have given of himself, he thought—and he wasn’t sure exactly _what_ ugly sound he had just made—but he was shaking, and it was the best he could manage under the circumstances. Francis did laugh, but it was deep in his throat, and accompanied by the movement of his fingers along James’s spine. “Really, James,” Francis said, still laughing, and extracting one of his arms from the awkward position in which they were pinned down. He reached up, and turning James’s head gently with the backs of his fingers along his sharp jawline, kissed him fully on the lips. 

\---

Later, lazily sprawled across the window-seat of the cabin, James leaned his head back against Francis’s shoulder. The other man’s arms were wrapped firmly around him, and their hands twisted together in a particularly complex knot against James’s chest. He rolled his neck to the side so that he might look up at Francis, who obligingly leaned down to kiss him, again. Gently at first, then deepening into something that locked them together as tightly as the fierce grip of their hands. James dragged his teeth along Francis’s lower lip as he pulled away, and vainly reached up to try and get a hand into his hair, hoping to pull him back. He groaned in only half-feigned disappointment as Francis grabbed that hand by the wrist instead, kissed the joints of the fingers once, and brought both hands together down to his lap. “No…” he whispered. “Please…”

Francis laughed, softly. “James, I’ve barely had a chance to breathe for the last twenty minutes. Allow me this moment, unless you want my lungs to give out entirely.” 

“If you insist,” James muttered, and tilted his head against Francis’s neck. He flicked his eyes upward. “You planned this, didn’t you?” 

“Planned what? That’s a rather certain word. _Hoped_ , of course. But I wasn’t even sure you’d accept my offer to dance. And to be honest I didn’t have many other ideas.” 

“But I had told you I would! Explicitly. God, you’re dense, aren’t you? I would have thought _my_ intent was quite obvious.” 

“Oh, really?” He laughed under his breath again and threaded a hand through James’s still-curled but now slightly disheveled hair. “Is that what this is about, then?” 

“Not exactly. But I do suppose I don’t enjoy feeling like an imposter around you.” 

“Imposter? You know I wouldn’t care if you cut it all off… might be more practical out here anyway…”

James shot him a nasty look. 

“Alright, alright! If it makes you happy!” Francis raised both hands in surrender, before returning the one to James’s hair, and running the thumb along his high cheekbone. His other hand landed on James’s sternum, moving gently under his slightly-undone waistcoat. “How did you manage it, though?” 

“Oh, Bridgens helped me. It was an unusual hour for it, by the time we had the fire going, but the man is very obliging.” 

“Bridgens _knows_?” 

“I’ve never spoken a word to him about you, Francis. Well, apart from professional matters. But I believe Bridgens to be the most perceptive man in the British navy.” 

“I’m really going to have to talk to him about withholding important information from me…” Francis mused, removing his hand from James’s hair again, using it to support himself while he shifted to a more comfortable position. 

James swatted at his leg. “You will _not_. It’s not his fault you’re oblivious.” He took Francis’s hand back in his own. There was blood on his fingers, but neither chose to acknowledge it. 

Francis leaned sideways into the corner, pulling James with him. James pushed himself backwards, settling himself securely between the coldness of the wall and the warmth of the other man’s body. He laid one arm across Francis’s chest and wrapped the other behind his back, turning his face against his neck. “What did I tell you about sleeping out here?” he whispered, his lips brushing against wool and linen. 

“Indulge me,” came the voice from above his head. “Tonight, at least. You can tell me to sleep wherever you wish when I’m on your ship, tomorrow, but not on _Terror_.” 

“Wherever…?” James began, any number of ridiculous retorts flashing through his mind. 

“You know what I mean.” Francis was laughing, quietly and low in his throat, but James could feel it through the layers of material where he had laid his head. The sensation made him clench his hand tighter over Francis’s chest, and he tilted his head to kiss him along his jawline, one of the few places he could find exposed skin, but he returned his comments to the purely practical. 

“Are you sure you don’t want the great cabin, after all? I’m happy to move back to the subordinate officer’s quarters, where I started this mission. It isn’t like it’s very great a distance and I was quite content there…”

“And I am sure I shall be _quite content_ there as well. No,” he reached up and threaded their fingers together, “there is no purpose in moving. It is unnecessary work to preserve a hierarchy that does not even apply in our case. You are captain of _Erebus_ , not I. I did not transfer my command before, and I have no intention of doing so now. I’ll merely be there, partaking of your hospitality.” 

“ _Hospitality?_ ” James exclaimed, pushing himself upright, and immediately dissolving into laughter. “That’s what you call...this?” He jabbed a finger squarely at Francis’s shoulder before collapsing down upon it again. 

James could not see Francis’s expression, but it sounded both amused and affronted. “No, no I do not.” He spoke quietly, into his hair. “But everyone else can.” Arms wrapped around him again, drawing him in as close as possible. They fell silent, relaxed against each other. 

“Francis?” he asked, after a time, tracing the buttons of the man’s coat with his fingers. 

“Hm?”

“You know I meant it when I said I admired you from the beginning. There was...God, there was nothing that you had not seen or done already. I had always hoped that…” he trailed off, realizing there was no response. “Francis,” he said, more sternly.

“Hm.”

James squirmed into a more upright position. Christ, he was clearly never going to be able to have this conversation. He shoved a hand against the other man’s shoulder.

Francis startled. “What?” 

“You know, for someone who complains about sleeplessness you seem to have no problem at the moment.” James squinted at him with feigned irritation. 

“Oh...I suppose not. Perhaps you should be flattered. Clearly I found our arrangement quite...comfortable.” As if to prove the point he pulled his arm in closer, forcing James to fall back down on top of him. 

James yelped in surprise. “Of course. Of course I am happy to hear it, but you _are_ aware that I can’t stay here, right?”

Francis’s eyebrow quirked upward. “You would leave me alone, tonight?”

James wasn’t sure if he was serious or not. He wrinkled his forehead and stared down at him. “That’s not very charitable of you. I have no intention of leaving you, ever if I can help it. Starting tomorrow, if you like. But for now there are one hundred other men who might notice when I don’t return.” 

“They’re asleep.”

“The men on watch aren’t. Stop being absurd; you haven’t given up on command entirely, have you?”

“No, no, I’m just being facetious. Of course.” He ran a hand down his face and sat up. “But you’re sure you haven’t asked Bridgens to invent an excuse?” 

“Francis!”

“Alright, alright.” He reached for James’s hand, and kissed it once. “It will be _Erebus_ , then?”

“ _Erebus_ ,” James confirmed, and kissed his hand in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And voila! At long last, the dance scene happened. 
> 
> Historical notes: 
> 
> ~~I invented~~ Francis made the penguin story up. But, Joseph Hooker truly was the name of the naturalist on the Ross/Crozier Antarctic expedition, he really was quite fond of studying birds, and he absolutely despised the Falkland Islands, where the expedition spent the winter of 1842. He thought it was the most miserable place he'd ever been, according to a letter he sent home. This was the fourth winter of the expedition, and everyone seems to have been a bit DONE with the whole thing. So, pulling a Stephen Maturin and letting a penguin loose in the captain's cabin? I can imagine him at least thinking about it. And Crozier and Ross were mega bros (Ross truly was the only person allowed to call Francis "Frank," ugh), so I have no qualms imagining Crozier pranking him. My information on most of this comes from [_Erebus_](https://books.google.com/books?id=gLByDwAAQBAJ&printsec=frontcover&dq=erebus+michael+palin&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjbrIeJlO_fAhXQc98KHRMHDysQ6AEIKDAA#v=onepage&q=erebus%20michael%20palin&f=false) by Michael Palin. 
> 
> The penguin I'm imagining is a rockhopper penguin, native to the Falklands. They do have some stunning ~~hair~~ feather-styles. I think [this one in particular](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rockhopper_penguin#/media/File:FAL-2016-New_Island,_Falkland_Islands-Rockhopper_penguin_\(Eudyptes_chrysocome\)_05.jpg) looks like [James Ross](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/a3/James_Clark_Ross.jpg), but ...
> 
> Crozier actually made the comparison between Joseph Hooker and Henry Goodsir, in a [letter to James Ross.](https://canadianmysteries.ca/sites/franklin/archive/text/CrozierRoss_en.htm)
> 
> I'm sorry I keep having James make some stereotypical comment, even in his head, about what a sailor should be, but he's just that kind of guy. The 1840s were full of books proclaiming what the ideal of an old-fashioned Jack Tar was, and being sure-footed and a good dancer was one of the token characteristics.
> 
> Crozier truly was quite particular about his middle names. He signed everything "F.R.M. Crozier" or "Francis R.M. Crozier," and so I have James just run with that.


End file.
